


live at the MoMA

by helveticaneue



Series: now don't you look good sucking american dick [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-16 21:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11261391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helveticaneue/pseuds/helveticaneue
Summary: At some point, late in the summer, Chris knows he’ll get tired of Johnny waking him up early, but for now, he’s just thrilled to have Johnny back."What do you want to do today?” Chris asks.“What about one of those museums you always talk about?"





	live at the MoMA

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aqualined (inabstract)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabstract/gifts).



> Dear aqualined,
> 
> I have to be honest, I've been tossing around this idea since long before I read your Dear Author letter. But the likes you listed just paired so well that I knew I just had to write this for you. I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely best friend and beta for always making me and my writing better, and also to my other beta for looking this over super last minute. Y'all are the best
> 
> Title is from the iconic 'Picasso Baby' by Jay-Z.

Johnny gets in to New York in the evening, not late exactly, but a little past the worst part of rush hour. They could go out to dinner, but Chris would rather be somewhere he can touch Johnny, so they call in take out at a place between his apartment and the airport.

Johnny's shy, like he usually is when they're first seeing each other after a long while, and Chris can tell by the way he keeps glancing at him and looking away that he has something to tell Chris, and he isn't sure how to start.

Chris eats his Thai food with one hand so he doesn’t have to stop holding Johnny’s, pressing their ankles together under his kitchen table. Johnny wants to try some of his pad see ew so Chris feeds it to him, laughing at the face he makes at the spice. Johnny prefers sweet food to spicy, digging into the pineapple fried rice Chris ordered him with delight. It’s sweet, how he grins up at Chris, the shyness evaporating the longer they sit together, fading back into comfort at just being together. Chris missed him.

Johnny sits on the counter and watches while Chris cleans up, as cheerfully unhelpful as Chris remembers. They spend all season texting and skyping, keeping up near constant contact, but having Johnny in his space is different, energy bouncing easily between them, the flash of Johnny’s smile enough to illuminate the memories that had faded being apart during the season. It’s quiet, Johnny observing him quietly, smiling when Chris’s eyes linger on him between trips to the fridge with the leftovers

“You have something to tell me?” he asks.

Johnny stares at him, open mouthed. Chris wants to put something in it. His fingers, maybe, or his dick. “How do you _do that_?”

“I know you, baby,” Chris says, leaning on the counter right next to where Johnny is perched, crowding his space. He leans in, kisses him. Johnny’s hands come up to bury themselves in his hair, and he wraps a leg around Chris’ waist, pulling him closer. They haven’t seen each other since February, when Johnny had had nearly three whole blessed days to spend in New York, in Chris’ bed and on Chris’ couch and generally making a wonderful nuisance of himself.

Chris pulls away, says “You wanna tell me whatever you have to tell me, sweetheart?”

Johnny nods, not meeting his eyes, all shy once again. He holds Chris’ hand while they walk to the couch, which is not far in Chris’ tiny, open concept apartment.

Johnny settles on the couch pressed against Chris, curled up into his chest. “I have this fantasy,” he says, mostly into Chris’ shirt. “It’s like– it’s stupid.”

“Doesn’t matter, I still want to hear about it,” Chris says. It took them a while to get to this point, where Johnny’s able to tell Chris about his fantasies. He always gets so pink and embarrassed, but nowadays Chris doesn’t have to prod so much to get Johnny to tell him what he wants, not like he did with the bondage thing, which took nearly three months of needling for Johnny to admit.

(Chris is so glad he persisted, because there’s no more beautiful sight in the world, he thinks, than Johnny coming apart, eyes filled with tears, wrists bound in BC maroon.)

“I was jerking off, in Ibiza, and the door was unlocked and I thought– anyone could come in and see me,” Johnny says, in a rush. “I wanted– I thought about you fucking me in public where anyone could see, and know that I’m yours.”

“John, babe–”

“I know we can’t. I know people can’t know about us and it would be so bad if we got recognized– it’s just there, in my head.”

Chris presses a kiss to Johnny’s hair, a little greasy after a long plane ride from Spain. He can read Johnny, knows that he stressed out about this, thought out all of the possible ways it could go wrong. It’s true– they can’t get recognized, because there would be an absolute shitstorm. They’re both out to their friends and families and their teams, but neither of them is ready for the world to know.

That doesn’t mean Chris won’t try to give Johnny what he wants.

\---

Chris will never tire of looking at Johnny in his bed. He has a California King and Johnny looks so small, almost fragile, pale on dark sheets.

Johnny’s grown since Chris met him, shooting up a few inches and gaining muscle mass, but he’s still so small compared to Chris, and so, so lovely.

He’s probably tired from the long plane ride, but he’d shed his clothes and climbed on the bed with the alarming speed Chris has become accustomed to. Johnny always wants it, will beg so easily for Chris’ dick. Sometimes Chris wonders how he got so lucky, that Johnny wants him, let alone this much.

“Please, Kreids,” Johnny says, eyes already so wide, so dark. They’d made out for a while on the couch, until they were both hard and Johnny was straddling his lap, rutting his hips against him, seeking friction. He wants it so bad.

“I’ve gotta open you up first, baby,” Chris says, trying to avoid taking his eyes off Johnny while he searches for lube and a Magnum in his bedside table. “It’s been so long since you took my dick, I need to stretch you so it’ll fit.”

“I fingered myself, before I left Spain–” Johnny starts, and Chris shushes him. They both know from experience that it won’t be enough. Chris doesn’t want to brag, but he has a really, _really_ big cock. Johnny is a pretty small person, comparatively. After a twelve hour flight, this won’t work without some stretching.  

Johnny whines, so gorgeous and desperate. Chris has hardly touched him at all. He settles between Johnny’s legs and slicks up his fingers, hasty and hapless. It’s been months since he’s had Johnny like this. Skype sex is nice, but it’s just not the same.

Johnny wasn’t lying – he is slick like he’s been fingered recently. Chris starts with two fingers, because he knows Johnny likes the burn, and gets rewarded with a moan.

When they first started doing this, back in Johnny’s freshman year, Chris’ junior year, Johnny would always try to keep as quiet as possible.

At some point, Chris fucked the embarrassment out of him.

Now, at Chris’s place, he’s loud, keeping up a consistent stream of begging and breathy noise that Chris loves. Johnny is gorgeous like this. Johnny is pretty much always gorgeous, in Chris’ totally unbiased opinion, but he’s a special kind of breathtaking like this. Chris is so fucking lucky to have him.

Chris presses a kiss to Johnny’s stomach as he crooks his fingers, and kisses his way down, scraping his teeth against Johnny’s thighs.

“Please,” Johnny says, and he begs so beautifully. Chris gives him another finger, and presses a kiss to his rim, where Chris’s fingers are disappearing inside him.

Johnny gasps, and pushes into Chris’ fingers. “I’m ready,” he says.

Chris is tempted to add another, to stretch him a bit more, but he knows they’re both tired of waiting for him to be inside Johnny. The months they have to wait seem longer every year, especially with Johnny going to Worlds this year. He pulls out his fingers, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s stomach, and stretches out over him, holding himself up with one arm and grabbing the condom he’s left out with the other.

He has to roll to the side, the skill of putting a condom on with one hand lost to the years since college. Johnny whines, because he’s impatient as fuck.

Chris gets it. He’s dying to get inside Johnny, to feel him again. He doesn’t want to wait any longer either.

Pushing into Johnny is – it’s fucking incredible. It’s everything Chris has been missing. He can’t help but to kiss Johnny, to drink him in, to press his lips all over his jaw and and his neck and his collarbone.

“Fucking move,” Johnny says, rocking his hips against Chris’, and Chris unfreezes to thrust into him and – fuck, wow. Johnny is fucking perfect, feels so fucking good, so tight and hot and gorgeous beneath him.

“Chris, Chris, Chris,” Johnny is chanting, broken apart by moans. He looks beautiful like this, he always looks beautiful like this, and Chris is just lucky enough to be the one who gets to see it.  

Chris is rocking into him, slow, and Johnny is arching up to meet him, lips brushing together in a near-kiss that Chris can’t hold or deepen, too focused on how it feels to be inside Johnny again after so long.

“I missed you,” he breathes into Johnny’s mouth, and Johnny lifts his head to really kiss him this time, hand curling through Chris’ hair to tug him down so their lips are finally, actually meeting. It’s not their best kiss, their most romantic or technical or anything like that, but Chris can taste the sweetness of the pineapple on Johnny’s breath, the longing as he tugs on Chris’ curls.

“Missed you too,” Johnny says, when they break apart for air. “Missed you so damn much.”

He tilts his hips and gasps, and Chris tries to aim for that same spot again, get Johnny to make that same noise, even as he can feel his orgasm creeping up too soon.

“John, baby, fuck I’m not going to last.”

“C’mon,” Johnny says, and Chris reaches down to take Johnny’s cock in hand, wanting desperately for them to come at the same time even though he knows how improbable it is.

Johnny comes first, thankfully, Chris’ name on his lips, and Chris has to cut him off to kiss him and stop trying to hold back. He sags down onto Johnny as he comes, blanketing him and smearing Johnny’s come between them.

They lie like that, for a while, breathing into each other, until Johnny extricates his hand from where it’s trapped under Chris and holds it up for a high five. “Good game, good reunion sex, bro.”

Chris laughs and high fives him.

“Okay, now get off me, you giant,” Johnny grumbles.

“I’m not giant, you’re just really small,” Chris rolls off Johnny and strips off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the direction of the garbage.  

“I thought nothing about you was small,” Johnny says, grinning madly. Chris smacks him on the thigh, not hard, but hard enough that Johnny bites his lip and makes a little noise. Chris leans over to kiss him, then rolls out of bed.

“Hey, no, it’s cuddle time,” Johnny protests.

“Just getting something to clean you up, so we don’t have to do it later,” Chris tells him.

He looks in the mirror, in the bathroom, and there’s this stupid grin he can’t get off his face. The guys all call it his “Johnny smile” and make fun of him in the room. They can always tell when he’s texting Johnny, cracking jokes about how he’s spoiling Johnny Hockey’s innocence.

Chris always makes a face and chirps them back, but he loves it really, being teased about Johnny how the other guys are teased for being sappy about their wives and girlfriends. It feels normal and good, and he can forget about how they can’t hold hands in public for a while.

After he’s cleaned Johnny off he climbs into bed and curls around him and revels in the feeling of Johnny in his arms.

\---

Chris wakes up to Johnny poking at his side. The sun is streaming through his curtains and Johnny is propped up on his elbow, a halo of light behind him, the edges of his dark hair almost gold with the glow, At some point, late in the summer, Chris knows he’ll get tired of Johnny waking him up early, but for now, he’s just thrilled to have Johnny back.

“Chris,” Johnny says. “Hey, Chris. You should fuck me.”

Chris is warm and fuzzy with sleep and yeah, he wants to fuck Johnny but he’s still waking up, limbs heavy and slow as he blinks away a haze of sleep. Johnny is how is always is in the morning, a bundle of energy, grinning slyly at him.  

“It’s too early,” Chris tells him, voice scratchy. “I’m not awake yet.”

Johnny smirks and slides his hand down to touch Chris’ morning wood through where it’s tenting the sheet. “Little Chris seems pretty awake to me.”

“My dick is not named ‘little Chris’,” Chris says, attempting to sound dignified. “It’s far too big to be called ‘little’ anything.”

Johnny laughs at him, like he always does when he thinks Chris says something stupid, and, well, Chris was trying to make him laugh. “What if I ride you, can you handle that before you’re awake?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be jet lagged?” Chris asks. Johnny just _looks_ at him until Chris says, “Yes, babe, do you think I’d say no to that?”

Johnny grins at him, all smug and self-satisfied, and grabs the lube from where they left it on Chris’ bedside table last night. He pushes the sheets down and slicks up Chris’ dick with ease, practiced from sleepy mornings the past several summers.

Johnny’s smug look disappears as he sinks slowly down onto Chris’ cock, his lips parting in a gasp. He’s hot and so, so tight.

He has to stop, a few times, and breathe, adjusting to the feel of Chris’ dick inside him. It’s just as well – Chris needs time to adjust too, given that his brain is just barely aware of the jump in sensation

It’s maddeningly slow, but Johnny finally seats himself on Chris, breath coming out in gasps. He has one hand braced on Chris’ chest, and Chris covers it with his own. He marvels at how much smaller Johnny’s hands are, thinks about how quick they are with a hockey stick, how deft they are flipping through game notes and rolls of tape. Then Johnny lifts himself up and falls again, and hockey is the farthest thing from Chris’ mind.

The thing about Johnny is that he _is_ hockey. It’s more than that dumb Johnny Hockey nickname that he loves. Chris fell in love with his hockey first, and then Johnny himself. But Johnny isn’t just hockey. He’s this, too, this beautiful boy gasping on Chris’ cock, the one who blushes when Chris calls him sweetheart and will wake him up early just to ride him. He’s wicked defensive of the ones he loves, and he snorts when he laughs sometimes, and he can’t drink for shit, but that’s okay.

It’s less hurried than last night, where a slow rhythm still brought them to orgasm quickly. They’re less focused on the feeling of finally being together again and more focused on relearning each others’ bodies. Chris’ hands dig into Johnny’s ass and pull his hips close and Johnny leans forward and gasps so beautifully as the angle changes.

Chris never gets tired of hearing the noises Johnny makes, noises he half forgets every time they’re apart and delights in relearning. He never gets tired of watching Johnny come apart on his cock, like he is now, and Chris may have been half asleep not too long ago but he’s never been more awake.

They both last longer this time but Johnny still finishes first, rocking on Chris’ cock, spent, to bring Chris to orgasm. Once they’ve cleaned up with one of their discarded shirts (probably Chris’, judging by the size) and Chris is scrolling through his messages – two from his mom, one from Johnny’s mom, and three from Kev – Johnny curls up against his side and looks up with those big eyes he makes when he wants something and says, “Breakfast?”

“It’s nearly lunchtime,” Chris says, eyeing his clock reading 11:43 as he types out “Flight got in safely, we’ll drive up on Tuesday” to Jane.

“Okay, but it’s always time for breakfast food,” Johnny argues, which – yeah, Chris really could go for eggs and bacon right now.

Johnny does his usual morning after thing, which is sitting on the counter in American flag patterned boxers and watching Chris cook up scrambled egg whites and turkey bacon, because he has a diet plan and he’s going to stick to it. Johnny insists on eating sitting in Chris’ lap, which makes things a little complicated and also makes Chris thank the structural integrity of his chairs, which he purchased from some fancy store and not Hank’s suggestion of Ikea.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks, absentmindedly holding out a piece of bacon for Johnny to eat.

“What about one of those museums you always talk about,” Johnny suggests. “I want to know what you think is so awesome about them.”

Chris has taken Johnny to some museums back in Boston before, and Johnny has never really been too interested, but this is New York and it’s worth another try. He vetoes the Met, because it’s already past noon and they don’t have quite enough time to spend there. Chris prefers spending the whole day there, from open to close.

“We can go to the MoMA,” he says. “They have van Gogh there, so you’ll actually know at least one of the artists.”

“Who is that, again?” Johnny asks, and Chris is affronted until he realizes Johnny is teasing him.

“You asshole,” he grins, and digs his hands into where he knows Johnny is especially ticklish.

Johnny squeals and pushes at him, and yeah, this apartment is home, but this is _home_.

\---

Chris has a membership to the MoMa, so he and Johnny can get in for only five dollars between them. Money’s not an issue, though, so he pays for the two college students behind them, artsy kids who seem like they might be on a date too.

Johnny smiles at him and bumps their shoulders together as the kids thank him. “That was really sweet,” he says.

Chris shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

They wander up the stairs, and through the galleries, and Chris tells him about Picasso, who Johnny has heard of, and Duchamp, who he hasn’t. Johnny knows Pollock and Warhol, and he’s seen Lichtenstein before but didn’t know his name. He gets so excited to point out “I know this one!” and he’s just as eye catching as the bold lines decorating the pieces on the walls, connecting the pieces in the gallery that becomes something bigger than the curation, their own personal narrative of Johnny's stupid hair and snide comments between moments of awed silence.

They stand there, not too close, not close enough, looking at Kahlo’s _Fulang-Chang and I_. "She was bisexual," Chris blurts. He and Johnny are visible, side by side, in the mirror that accompanies the painting.

"Hm?" Johnny doesn't look at him, still looking at the painting.

"Frida Kahlo," Chris says. "She was bisexual."

"Oh," Johnny says. He looks at Chris like he knows just what he's trying to say. What he wants to say but he can't, not at a museum in the middle of New York where Chris plays hockey. (There's so many people in New York, enough that Chris enjoys a certain anonymity, but they can't risk it. They can never risk it.)

Johnny steps closer, brushes the backs of their hands together like a parody of holding hands, like being a normal gay couple in New York who doesn't need to worry about being the first would entail.

Chris wants to scream from the rooftops that he loves Johnny. He wants to sit on a bench in Central Park or the BC quad and feed Johnny Skittles and kiss him and not get a second glance for anything other than PDA. He wants to hold his hand walking down the street and go on dinner dates where they can act like they’re actually on a date. For now, he'll just look at the same art he comes to see so often and he'll look at Johnny looking at the art and remember how lucky he is, that Johnny loves him and he loves Johnny, even if they can't tell the world.

Maybe they show their love in other ways, though. Maybe Johnny asks if there's a bathroom on this floor of the museum. (There is.) A family one, where they can lock the door behind them so Chris can push Johnny up against it and kiss him likes he's been wanting to since they left the safety of his apartment. (There is.)

They're hurried. They may not have ingrained Canadian politeness like some of the guys in the league, but they aren't going to keep the family restroom occupied for too long.

Chris would be content to just kiss Johnny, but he clearly has other ideas. He's unbuttoning Chris's jeans with one hand and deftly pulling his wallet out of his back pocket with the other, stopping to rifle through it for a packet of lube and a condom.

“You’re insatiable,” Chris huffs, pushing at Johnny’s jeans and boxers.

“You love it,” Johnny grins. “What’s the best way to do this? Over the sink?”

“Sure,” Chris agrees, and Johnny pushes the condom into his hand, slicking up his own fingers to prep himself.

They got practiced at bathroom quickies, back at BC when their relationship was still mostly a secret (that it turned out all their teammates knew about anyway). This feels familiar, and Chris rolls on the condom and takes the packet of lube from Johnny.

It’s not too long before Johnny is pulling his fingers out and saying, “I’m ready, fuck me, Chris.”

And, well, they’re on a time limit here.

Chris kisses Johnny’s neck, and his shoulder through the Rangers tee he borrowed. Johnny’s Red Sox cap has fallen in the sink. Chris is, as always, dwarfing Johnny, six inches taller and much broader, even though Johnny has bulked up considerably since they first met.

Their eyes lock in the mirror and Johnny sighs, presses back into Chris. He’s got both hands gripping the sink, white knuckled, as Chris pushes in, reaching down at the same time to fist Johnny’s dick.

It’s crazy, how a bathroom quickie can make Chris feel so damn nostalgic, so damn in love. It reminds him of where they started.

He ruts into Johnny a few more times, finishes him off with his hand. They clean up as fast as possible, just in case there’s someone waiting.

There isn’t, thankfully, someone to see Chris Kreider of the New York Rangers walk out of a family restroom with a guy who just might be Calgary Flames forward Johnny Gaudreau, who has only slightly managed to look like he didn’t just have sex.

“Was that what you wanted?” Chris asks, bumping their arms together.

Johnny looks up at him and grins. “That was pretty good, yeah. You might have to remind me when we get home, though.”

They have a lot of places they call home. Chris’ apartment in the city, Johnny’s place in Calgary, their parents houses back in Massachusetts, and the little place they share, close to BC’s campus, that they sublet during the school year. But going home, that’s really what Chris felt last night, when he pulled up to arrivals at JFK and saw Johnny standing there with his hockey bag and a huge suitcase.

It’s cliche, to say home is a person, but when you can’t stay in one place for long because you’re getting on a plane every other day to play hockey, home has to be a person. And Johnny will always be home.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to 'You Ain't No Saint' By Aaron West and the Roaring Twenties while writing this.
> 
> Also, I do not endorse this usage of family restrooms. If you are going to have semi-public sex, please do it somewhere not frequented by children.
> 
> [tumblr](https://brandondubinskys.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/stromeeyebrows)


End file.
